


Homecoming

by TGP



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Audible and Visual Hallucinations, John-centric, M/M, Medication, Oh but there is a kiss in there, Post Reichenbach, Psychological, Reunion, Schizophrenia, What is real and what isn't?, but idealized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TGP/pseuds/TGP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock comes back but John has been seeing him for a long time already."</p><p>My take on this prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Before you get into this, know that it contains a man suffering from auditory and visual hallucinations. It is the Hollywood version of schitzophrenia and in very little shape or form resembles actual schitzophrenia. This is a plot device, not an accurate portrayal. 
> 
> Also, please keep in mind that I am an American from the country. There's very little in the way of Britishisms because I don't trust myself to use them correctly. I've tried to keep euphamisms from my end of the woods out as much as I can because they're just not proper.
> 
> Please enjoy :)

John makes it easy for everyone to think he’s over it. He shows up to the clinic and does his hours without complaint, even managing to smile. He goes out to the pub with Greg at least once a week for riotous company. Sometimes he even dates, but those at least have not come to anything.

 

John makes it easy to think he’s fine. He keeps the flat clean, almost obsessively so without Sherlock around to drop anything and everything wherever he means to forget it. He has tea with Mrs. Hudson and makes pleasant small talk about his work. He only visits the graveyard once a year.

 

The thing is, John isn’t fine. But he sees Sherlock and that helps. Sometimes, he sees Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, fingers steepled while trying to figure through some great mystery. Sometimes, he sees Sherlock standing at the window with his violin, not quite playing but running the bow quietly across the strings. Sometimes, he looks into Sherlock’s room and sees him sleeping in bed, but Sherlock hadn’t done that much in life and he doesn’t do it often in John’s hallucinations.

 

John knows Sherlock isn’t real. He understands that. When he sees Sherlock around the flat, he makes sure to keep his voice quiet, so as not to alert Mrs. Hudson to the fact that he is slowly taking leave of his senses. Sherlock talks back to him most of the time, unless he’s having a snit and being a petulant child. Most of the time, John spends his evening in his chair while Sherlock wanders around him doing what Sherlock does best - _pouting_.

 

The first time John saw Sherlock was two weeks after he died. He saw him from the corner of his eye and Sherlock was gone the moment John turned. This happened over and over until one day, John finally caught him with a full gaze. Slowly, Sherlock appeared more and more. Once a week, twice, once a day… until finally, Sherlock is at his side nearly all the time.

 

While Sherlock often follows him to work, John makes sure not to respond to him unless they’re alone. He knows the moment someone realizes what he’s seeing, he’ll be sent back to therapy and put on pills again. Frankly, it seems a waste of time, energy, and concern. He’s doing just fine the way he is and it isn’t as if they worked before. Besides, he’s always been able to tell when it’s real and when it isn’t. He’s only ever seen the dead.

 

When John wakes up in the middle of the night screaming, Sherlock will be at the foot of his bed with a scowl at being awakened. It comforts him in the strangest way. Not that the nightmares ever get better or less frequent, but knowing Sherlock would be there when he woke helps soothe him after. Sometimes, he falls asleep on Sherlock’s couch and wakes up with the man glaring at him for taking his sulking spot.

 

\----

 

_Monday_

 

Today is the same as it has ever been. John gets up to make toast and tea. He retrieves the paper and checks through it as he eats breakfast. Nothing too interesting, nothing that would catch Sherlock’s attention. He folds the paper up and sets it on the edge of the table anyway. When he finishes his meal, he gets cleaned up for work and then heads for the door.

 

“I’m off,” he calls quietly, since Sherlock isn’t already at his heels. He thinks he hears the man moving about in his room and figures this is one of those days when Sherlock would rather sulk in the flat. Nodding to himself, John pulls open the door and then pauses.

 

Before him is Sherlock. A little bedraggled, like he’s been rushing around on a case, but otherwise the same as always. Except he has a red scarf on. That catches John’s attention. He frowns at the scarf, wondering why anything about Sherlock had changed after three years, but maybe his subconscious had simply gotten bored. There was precedence. Maybe he saw a red scarf the other day. The color is nice enough with Sherlock’s tones, just not as nice as the blue one.

 

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says in a quiet tone, eyes boring into him as if expecting something.

 

“Oh. Hello,” John replies and then steps aside to let Sherlock in. “Been running around, then?”

 

Sherlock gives him a queer look. But he comes inside and starts loosening his scarf and coat. “I’ve kept busy. You look good.”

 

“As good as yesterday.” John straightens and turns to the open doorway. “Well, I’m off.”

 

And then he leaves. He goes through the day as usual, not minding that Sherlock doesn’t show up to chat. He has quiet days here and there. When he returns to the flat, Sherlock is gone and John settles in for the evening. He notices the red scarf thrown over Sherlock’s chair and touches it. The knit wool feels soft and real under his fingers. John looks at his hand with a frown.

 

It’s been a while since the visions were this strong. Afghanistan flashes in his mind, all sand and beige and a young man’s face at his side, tugging his hands and keeping him from giving in to the pain through his shoulder. It might be time to go ahead and tell someone. But John doesn’t because if he does, they’ll take Sherlock from him. They’ll give him something to keep the hallucinations at bay. More than anything, John doesn’t want that.

 

\----

 

In the night, John dreams of Sherlock falling over and over. Every time, John is too slow to catch him or too stupid to talk him out of it. He wakes up screaming and at the foot of the bed, as usual, is Sherlock. John stares at him, panting as he rakes a hand back over his sweat dampened hair. He almost reaches out to touch Sherlock, make sure he’s there, but that would break the illusion. He knows Sherlock isn’t there. Not really.

 

“John?” the man asks as if trying to figure out just how awake he really is. It’s the preface for telling him to shut up already.

 

“I know. I’m sorry I woke you.” John closes his eyes tight, scrubbing his hand over his face as if he could wipe away his grief. “You can go back to bed. I’m fine.”

 

He takes a few moments to compose himself and when he opens his eyes, Sherlock is gone. John flops flat on his back and stares at the ceiling. His heart is still racing and the chill of the air on his damp skin makes him shiver. He thinks about going back to sleep and then doesn’t. Instead, he gets up and makes himself some tea. He stares at the steaming cup and listens to Sherlock walk around behind him. Sometimes, Sherlock likes to rummage about as if he can actually move anything. John doesn’t tell him differently. He likes to believe he can.

 

The tea has just cooled enough to drink when the door opens. John gets up with surprise. It’s two in the morning and there’s no reason Mrs. Hudson should be coming up unless there’s an emergency-

 

And it’s Sherlock.

 

For a moment, John feels an irrational anger. It was bad enough without Sherlock starting to teleport outside just to come in the door a second later. “Must you zip about like that?”

 

“What?” Sherlock asks, looking honestly startled. “What are you doing up? That’s very unlike you, John.”

 

“As if you didn’t know why.” John scowls. He sits back down and picks up his cup, sipping it moodily. Behind him, he hears Sherlock draw off his scarf and shut the door behind him. John doesn’t know why he’s angry. He finishes the tea in a few hurried gulps and then washes it out. Behind him, Sherlock cautiously steps through the den as if he’s been cornered by a dangerous animal.

 

“John?” he asks and John finds himself even more irritated at the softness of his voice.

 

“Nothing. I’m going back to bed.”

 

John escapes to his room and sinks down onto the mattress with some relief. He feels out of sorts, even more than the months after Sherlock first started appearing. He wonders if it’s finally happening, that he’s finally losing it. He’s given this a good run, at least. No one can deny that. Even Afghanistan didn’t break him.

 

He hears Sherlock step up to his bedroom door but he doesn’t come in or even knock. After several minutes, Sherlock moves off again.

 

\----

_Tuesday_

 

John makes breakfast with Sherlock watching him like a hawk. The taller man stands in the corner of the kitchen, arms folded across his chest as he watches John make his toast and tea. He doesn’t even comment when John retrieves the paper and looks through it with little interest.

 

“You’re focused today,” John comments.

 

“I have a new case,” Sherlock responds and of course. John wonders what he’s observing, how watching him eat could possibly help, but there’s no point in asking. After all, there isn’t even a real case.

 

John folds the paper up, sets it on the edge of the table, and cleans up from breakfast. “I suppose you’ll be busy then.”

 

“I will.”

 

“All right.”

 

John goes to work without another thought. He does his clinic hours as usual and Sherlock shows up mid morning to complain about the unimaginative décor of the exam rooms. John is comforted by the low stream of babble as he goes from patient to patient. He spends lunch alone and gets a call from Harry that ends with him wondering why she could never settle down. He goes through the remaining hours with Sherlock perched on a cabinet, staring at him like he had in the kitchen. John doesn’t know what to make of it, but Sherlock has always been moody, even in his head.

 

\----

 

John wakes up in a cold sweat as the bedroom door opens. He jerks to sit up and stares at Sherlock as he pants for breath. John doesn’t really want to see him, except that he does with everything he has. He reaches out without thinking and watches Sherlock’s eyes flicker to his outstretched hand and then back to his face.

 

“Oh, I- …” John draws back and looks at his hand, wondering what he was thinking. There was no reason to touch a hallucination. And John has always kept hyper aware of what is real and what isn’t. John looks up at him and stiffens because Sherlock has abandoned his post at the end of the bed and instead come to the side, so very close.

 

“You screamed my name,” Sherlock says with little of his usual matter-of-factness. It reminds John suddenly of their first meal together when Sherlock mistakenly thought he fancied men, that same slow caution. For a moment, John lets himself wonder what would have happened if he’d been honest. But then, Sherlock had probably deduced it already anyway.

 

“I dreamed of you,” John replies. He drops both hands into his lap and shakes his head a bit. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to bed.”

 

Sherlock says nothing and only the faint perception of someone nearby convinces John he hasn’t left. Then Sherlock sits down at the edge of the bed. John stares at him with surprise but Sherlock’s gaze isn’t on him, instead faraway.

 

“I’m sorry, John.”

 

He nearly loses it. Those quiet words feel like the bullet through his shoulder and breath escapes him in a hard rush. It feels like the moment he saw Private Mason die or got the phone call about Harry's latest accident. John can’t handle this. He doesn’t ever want to.

 

“Don’t,” he says tightly as his insides knot up. “Don’t start this.”

 

“ _John_.”

 

He slides his hands up to curl in his hair tight, as if there might be a way to block out the torture his mind had decided it’s time for. John knows this isn’t real. _He knows_. There’s no point in having some figment of his imagination apologize, especially when the real Sherlock never would have. A faint bubble of laughter builds in his throat. If he ever had to know that what he saw wasn’t real, he just needed to think of this moment.

 

“Go away,” he hisses out.

 

There’s quiet, then he feels the shift of the mattress as Sherlock gets up. The door closes soon after and John feels a stubborn pride that even if he’s slowly driving himself batty, he’s doing it with enough finesse to really convince himself sometimes. And then sometimes he charges his version of Sherlock with feelings he would never have, just to make himself realize what he was doing.

 

High functioning sociopath. Sometimes John forgets. He tries not to because Sherlock caring for him disturbs him more than Sherlock being dead.

 

\----

 

_Wednesday_

 

The flat is quiet in the morning. John gets up, dresses, and just leaves for fear of having to face Sherlock again. His day is blessedly clear of him. He never wants to think about what happened last night because then he’ll have to face that Sherlock isn’t actually real, instead of just knowing it in the back of his mind.

 

John comes home from the clinic and finds the red scarf draped on Sherlock’s chair again. He stares at it grimly, then becomes resolute in ignoring it, even if red is a ridiculous color. He looks into Sherlock’s room and the bed is pristinely made, as usual, because Sherlock may have strewn things about like a fool in the rest of the flat, but he’d always kept his personal space together. The sight comforts him. John trudges to his own room to change. It’s a pub night. He and Greg are men that enjoy a little routine, so he doesn’t even need to call to know he’ll be met.

 

A night at the pub is just what he needs after the last few days. His knee had begun aching fiercely that afternoon, so John grabs his cane from near the door. The knee had been sore most days since Sherlock’s death, but was rarely stiff enough to need assistance. Those are the days when his loss weighs most heavily. John understands. He’s just stopped caring about it.

 

Greg already has a table for them when John gets there. He greets him warmly and then the smile fades as he looks at the cane. Greg knows what it means, just as John does. But he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he buys the first round.

 

John lets himself relax around Greg. They’ve kept friendly the last three years, helping each other get through the loss of their friend. John knew he’d probably have self destructed otherwise, even with Sherlock hanging around. They trade stories and John tells him about the time Private Mason followed him into a farmers market and tripped head first into the shopkeep’s bosom. Greg laughs heartily and John smiles because Greg is the only one he can tell stories like that to because Private Mason was dead three months into his first tour and Greg wouldn’t think to look into the past.

 

Hours later, the two of them stumble on to 221B with John slumped against Greg’s side. They’re singing some tune but neither of them seems to care which part either is singing and they clash with horrible perfection. Greg gets John to the stairs and then heads on home. It takes a while, but John manages to get up without falling to his drunken death. He lurches through the flat towards his room, but the edge of a rug is finally his downfall. John trips and plummets.

 

The floor ends up softer than he’d thought, but not by much. John mutters and shifts to push himself up, except that what his hands find isn’t floor so much as _body_. He opens his bleary eyes and realizes he’s been caught up in long, thin arms that barely manage to keep him steady. John grabs hold of one to get himself straightened and steady, his legs wobbly under him.

 

“Who-” he starts but then he lifts his head and Sherlock stares back at him with disapproval. John blinks a little. He feels solid and warm and his hair is disheveled from sleep. “Sherlock.”

 

“You’re completely intoxicated,” Sherlock observes with a twist of his lips, but he starts bullying John on towards his bedroom. “Really, you should take more care in how much you drink.”

 

John understands what he says, even if he’s only really getting every second word or so. He stumbles along at Sherlock’s side, trying to figure out why something seems wrong. It’s not the first time he’d overdone it at the pub (not that this was at all the usual, but things had been a little strange lately) and not the first time Sherlock had to haul him to bed, either. He gets the ping of unusual again but can’t figure out why.

 

Sherlock directs him to the bed where John drops unceremoniously with a pleased groan. However, when Sherlock starts pulling away, John grabs his wrist.

 

“No,” he says softly as the elation of the night drains completely. He stares up at Sherlock, tracing over his face in the low light from the window. “Don’t go.”

 

“John, you’re drunk,” Sherlock murmurs but his voice has gone odd and he’s staring at John’s hand rather than at his face. “Let go.”

 

“Please don’t go again.” John feels his chest clenching, his eyes burning. “Don’t go.”

 

As Sherlock searches his face, he seems to find something before he sits at the edge of the bed. Speaking slow and easy, as if dealing with a wild animal or maybe a small child, Sherlock responds, “All right. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

 

John is ridiculously comforted. He lets Sherlock help him manhandle his coat, belt, and shoes off, but he’s not quite coordinated enough for anything else. John relaxes on his side with his hand firmly curled around Sherlock’s. He falls asleep that way and for once does not dream at all.

 

\----

 

_Thursday_

 

He had been planning on spending his day off watching bad television and doing some light reading. Instead, after he’s taken a good amount of aspirin for his headache, John calls the therapist. It’s just his luck that she had a cancellation and gets him in an hour later. John sits stiffly across from her. He doesn’t want to be here but he… He’s done being in denial about how bad off he really is.

 

“It’s been a while,” she observes with a soft smile meant to put him at ease but it hasn’t. “You sounded panicked on the phone. What’s going on?”

 

John thinks about how to word it to be something less than what it is, and realizes he’s trying to avoid the problem again. “I’ve been hallucinating.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“…Years.”

 

She stares at him with some surprise and shifts a little in her seat. Her posture becomes resigned but her expression is interested, curious. “Why haven’t you come to me about this before?”

 

“It never affected my normal life,” he admits. For some reason, he feels so silly sharing this. As if they're imaginary friends that just won’t go away. “I could ignore them and go on with work and everything, and it wasn’t as if they’ve tried to make me do anything unsavory. I didn’t think it would become a problem because I always knew they weren’t real.”

 

“I see.” She notes something down and he makes the effort not to watch. “What is it that you see?”

 

He hesitates and knows she’s waiting for him to elaborate. “There was always someone. I… At the beginning, I saw my sister. They gave me treatment for it before I figured out she wasn’t real.”

 

“How long ago?”

 

“I was twenty-five when she shot herself.” John tries not to think about it but Harry sits at the edge of the therapist’s desk, arms crossed over her chest as she gives him the most terrible look. The feel of her phone in his pocket is suddenly so very heavy. John feels like he’s betraying her. “I started seeing her a little while after. My parents had a family friend handle me. They didn’t want it on my record.”

 

“You were still in medical school then.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She looks to her notes and jots a few things down. “So you still see her?”

 

“She helped me buy a mobile a few years ago. Then scratched up the power port, the drunkard.” He sighs and at the hint of realization in her eyes, he holds up a hand. “No, it's all right. I know it was actually me. Harry's dead. Everything I see her do is really myself. I do know that, but remembering it, I always see her. I've never not taken responsibility for the things I've seen her do since she died.”

 

She nods, slowly, and makes a few more hurried notes. It's almost as if she's excited. Harry rolls her eyes.

 

“Why did you stop the medication?”

 

He drops his gaze from Harry and looks to his hands. “The pills affected my work. I took myself off them and learned how to ignore her. But during my tour… There was a private. Billy Mason. He died on my watch and then he started appearing.”

 

“Were you close?”

 

“We were friends. I… He reminded me of Harry. He was just as tactless as she was. Just as stubborn. He wasn’t even supposed to be on my team that day.”

 

She nods and gives him a knowing look, as if she can see right through him. “And now?”

 

“It’s Sherlock.”

 

Understanding flares in her eyes. She notes something else down. “His death was very sudden, like theirs.”

 

“Yes. It was.” John struggles to figure out what to say, how to read her expression. “I’ve been seeing him since then. He’s around most days.”

 

“The others?”

 

“Occasionally. Not nearly as much as they used to be. They tend to only appear when I'm... low. He’s more present.”

 

“Sherlock, then. What does he do?”

 

“Normal things.” He pauses, then amends, “Normal for Sherlock, anyway. He wanders the flat or complains about how bored he is. Er, sometimes he follows me to work. Just to watch. I… I think he likes having someone listen to him.”

 

She nods and there is a faint sympathy in her gaze. John doesn’t want to know what that means.

 

“Do you have any other hallucinations?”

 

“No. It… It’s just the three of them.”

 

Sitting back a bit in her chair, she regards him a little more shrewdly. “What changed?”

 

John hesitates. He thinks about the oddness of the last few days, how very real things have started to become. He thinks about the red scarf.

 

“Last night, I… I came back from the pub.” He flushed despite himself. “Went with Greg and had a few too many. Not a common occurrence, I assure you. Well, I… When I got home, Sherlock helped me to bed. He… He felt so real. I know he's not real. I've know the entire time. But last night, I... He felt so _real_. I… I started doubting.”

 

“Has anything happened in the last while? Anything that might have stressed you further?”

 

John couldn’t think of anything. His life had been as routine as could be, even with Sherlock’s company.

 

“The anniversary is coming up, isn’t it?” she asks more gently and John feels his insides go to ice.

 

“Yes,” he says stiffly. She gives him another soft look and then starts noting down a prescription.

 

“I think it’s more than time to try you on something again. This isn’t healthy at all, John. Maybe this can give you some relief.”

 

John leaves with the script in hand. He stands out on the street and stares at it. If there is anything more damning of his sanity than Sherlock and Harry and Private Mason, it is this bit of useless paper in his hands. John debates going to fill it today. Then he stuffs it in his pocket and gets a cab home.

 

\----

 

_Friday_

 

Glancing up from the edge of his book, John watches Sherlock pace in front of the couch. Sometimes he says something but then interrupts himself, going through a litany of things that don’t make any sense at all and punctuating by sharp turns on his heel or a wave of the hand. John has seen this so many times that he doesn’t think anything of it. He goes back to his reading because he knows Sherlock isn’t about to include him on whatever he’s decided to deduce. Besides, he’s been doing this since John got home from the clinic. By the time Sherlock fades to wherever he goes when John isn’t hallucinating him, it’s late and John heads on to bed.

 

He gets an hour of deep sleep and then he’s up with a cry and there are tears rolling down his cheeks. He scrubs his hand over face, concentrating on quieting his breathing, and then hears a quiet clearing of throat.

 

Sherlock looks at him as if he’s done something very stupid. It’s enough like the norm that John finds himself giving a quiet, strained chuckle.

 

“You woke me,” Sherlock mutters with a scowl.

 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s fine. I should be well used to it now.” The resignation in his voice is a refreshing change from the dream.

 

The little bits of mirth John had been able to drag up disappear. He swallows thickly and lifts his head to stare at Sherlock. Hesitantly, he starts reaching out to him. Sherlock gives him a confused glance but he steps around the bed, close enough for John to catch his hand. The solid grip is reassuring and John gives out a shaky breath. He needs to touch him; he can't help himself. He squeezes that hand and then jerks Sherlock forward enough for him to wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face against the man’s belly. Sherlock gives a faint scoff at the physical contact but doesn’t push him off. Actually, he just seems scandalized. John holds on tighter.

 

“John,” Sherlock intones uncomfortably.

 

“Just a minute. Just give me one more minute,” John begs him.

 

Sherlock doesn’t push him away but he does give out a long suffering sigh. “ _Sentiment_.”

 

John chuckles and tries to be soothed. He lets go before he wants to and Sherlock immediately steps back out of his reach looking as if he’d swallowed something bitter.

 

“Are you finished?” he mutters with obvious distaste. John can’t help but smile at him. He knows Sherlock will be sulking all day now but… John is ridiculously glad he’s here.

 

“Yes. Sorry. You can go.”

 

Sherlock’s brow twitches up at the dismissal but he takes the opportunity with a great amount of relief. It must be such a hassle to deal with someone normal. John permits himself a moment to smile.

 

And then he realizes how he didn’t think even once about Sherlock not being real. He swallows thickly and looks at the door. This has to stop. He doesn’t want it to, but he knows it has to. He has to give Sherlock up before he falls too far.

 

\----

 

_Saturday_

 

John fills the script. He takes home the bottle and stands in his room for a long while, staring at the two innocuous pills in his palm. Has it really come to this? He sits down at the edge of the bed.

 

Sherlock followed him to the pharmacy but soon grew bored when all John did was stand in line and ignore him. He hadn’t stayed long. He didn’t know. John lets out a snort at the ridiculousness of his own hallucination not knowing something he did. It makes him seem so much more real. But he isn’t real and John needs to face that.

 

John takes the pills. He tries not to feel like he’s killing his best friend all over again. Harry stands over him, glaring at him with all her worth. She’s so angry she can’t even speak. But then she leaves and John is alone.

 

The flat remains quiet the entire day. John sits in the living room and stares at Sherlock’s chair and feels lonelier than ever.

 

He finally sees Sherlock that night but only for a moment before ducking into his own room and then there’s no one to glare at him from the foot of his bed when he wakes up.

 

\----

 

_Sunday_

 

John catches faint noises from Sherlock’s room in the morning but it’s not until lunch that he sees him. Sherlock sits across from him with a book and pointedly ignores him. John’s pretty sure it’s still about the hug. He stops hearing Sherlock’s muttering.

 

Sherlock isn’t there when he jolts awake in the night.

 

\----

 

_Monday_

 

The day goes by in quiet calmness. John sees patients as usual and spends lunch alone. He catches a glimpse of Private Mason passing through the halls but doesn’t watch. He returns home and the quiet continues. He makes a simple dinner, goes to bed, and has his nightmares alone.

 

\----

 

_Tuesday_

 

John has trouble sleeping. He lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and listens to the flat settle around him. An hour after he goes to bed, he hears Sherlock walking around the flat. He closes his eyes and is asleep in minutes.

 

\----

 

_Wednesday_

 

John meets Greg at the pub like usual. He smiles easily but doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel much of anything today. John waves off drinks and explains the clash with his new medication, but he doesn’t tell Greg what it’s for.

 

Greg doesn’t ask. He seems to realize John doesn’t have much to say because he fills the silence with stories of his departments’ newest oddities. No one would have thought of Greg Lestrade being a gossip, but John knows full well he’s the worst of the bunch.

 

He makes sure Greg gets home, then goes back to his flat. He lays in bed, listens to the still night, and doesn’t sleep.

 

\----

 

_Thursday_

 

John spends the day watching bad television. He tries to read but finds the words skim past his mind without staying. He feels like he’s asleep but he knows he’s not. He’s not worried either. There were always side effects for these kinds of things. At least he isn’t seeing mirages anymore. He supposes that’s a comfort.

 

\----

 

_Friday_

 

One of the interns asks him if everything is okay. John is kind to her but he doesn’t really have the energy to give comforting her his all. She goes away still looking concerned but later on, he catches her with one of the nurses with her hand over her mouth, white as a sheet. Her eyes track to him and the pity in them is clear as day. He’s pretty sure she’s been told the gruesome story. Thankfully, John doesn’t really care.

 

He checks the date. After work, he goes to the grave.

 

If Sherlock were going to appear to him again, it would be here. John looks around, expecting him, but Sherlock is very good at not doing anything he’s supposed to do. He stares at the grave stone and traces every letter of Sherlock’s name. This is the first time he’s been here and not felt overwhelmed by emotion. He doesn’t feel anything.

 

John leaves after a few minutes. He goes home and watches a little television. Then he goes to bed and doesn’t sleep.

 

\----

 

_Saturday_

 

It’s while making breakfast that John wonders if the medication is worth it. He feels slow and sluggish and blank inside, just like after Harry. Likely, the dose is too high. He thinks about calling his therapist but really hates seeing her. Sometimes, she looks at him like a predator, waiting for the next juicy meal. John sighs, finishes buttering his toast, and then sits to the meal.

 

He thinks he hears footsteps behind him but he doesn’t bother tracking them. He doesn’t respond when he hears his name, either, because it's _his_ voice. The steps stop for several minutes and then head away.

 

The sooner he lets go, the sooner the medication will do its job and he’ll hear and see nothing at all. He doesn’t feel enough to care.

 

\----

 

_Sunday_

 

The day starts off bad and goes to worse. Most of the nurses give him the most pitying looks. All he can do is give them smiles he doesn’t feel and wave off their questions. The patients are bad. It seems like every screaming child and asshole shows up just for him and he spends the day wishing he had ear plugs and permission to punch someone in the face.

 

The irritation is far away but it’s enough to fantasize about. One of the nurses offers to buy him lunch. He declines nicely.

 

By the time he heads home, John is thinking about nothing but sinking into his bed. He doesn’t care that he won’t sleep; he just wants to stop moving for a little while. John lets himself in to the upstairs. He nearly rams right into Sherlock. It's been days since he saw him fully and John averts his eyes quickly.

 

The faster he let go...

 

He ignores Sherlock calling for him, dodges around him to get to his room. John shuts the door behind him. He lets out a shaky breath and changes out of his clinic clothes. He hears a knock at the door, an exasperated wondering about what he could possibly be angry about, and then silence. John lets himself drop onto the bed and doesn't bother moving further. He just wants to drift for a little while.

 

Thankfully, the one thing his medication is good at is letting him stop thinking.

 

\----

 

_Monday_

 

John comes back to the flat only to be met with arguing.

 

“- _just let us go on?!_ ” Mrs. Hudson's voice is shrill with upset. John pauses because he's never heard her sound like that. “Let _him_ go on like that? Have you no _sense?!_ ”

 

“Of course not,” Greg replies with disgust. “That would require a _heart_. Which is obviously lacking!”

 

John is rather sure he wouldn't want himself invited into whatever they've gotten wrapped up in. He isn't afraid for Mrs. Hudson. Angry or not, Greg would never hurt her. So, John heads on up without speaking to either of them. He closes the door quietly behind him and goes into the kitchen to find something. Unfortunately, nothing piques his interest, but he's found that's rather par for the course now. Without picking anything, he heads on to his room. His watch chimes about the time he gets inside. He glances at it, nods, and then opens the drawer in his night stand to retrieve his medication.

 

It’s gone.

 

John doesn’t panic. He roots though the drawer a little, checks around to see if he’d set the bottle on top and simply knocked it over, and then under the bed. Nothing. John leaves the bedroom and checks the bathroom, but finds much the same.

 

What he feels isn’t quite panic. His emotions are blanketed so deeply that he can’t quite manage. Surely Sherlock hadn’t come across the pills and- Well of course he hadn’t moved them. John only _thought_ he had enough substance to touch, much less manipulate the environment.

 

Going into the kitchen, John checks it out thoroughly and then moves onto the living room. He’s just levered himself to his knees by the couch, ignoring the sore pain jutting through his leg, when the door opens and Greg stalks inside.

 

“Oh,” John says with a blink. “Hello.”

 

Greg gives him a queer look but helps him up onto the couch when his knee fails him. He looks pale, stricken, and stares at John’s knee as if it might be the most terrible thing he’s ever seen.

 

“John,” he starts and then pauses, swallowing thickly. “I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For not noticing.”

 

John doesn’t understand what he’s saying. He looks over Greg’s face clinically and, for a moment, hears Sherlock’s voice carefully cataloguing his features and what they mean. John ignores that. The faster he lets go… “I’m not sure what you mean.”

 

“Sherlock… He…”

 

“He’s gone.” John sighs softly. He should talk about Sherlock. The therapist had said it would help, but he really doesn’t want to. He’s only just had the courage to let him go after three years. “It’s all right. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

 

Greg swallows again. Then he sits down next to John and drops his hands loosely in his lap. “He… John, you need to stay calm. Whatever I say, you need to stay calm.”

 

“What on earth?” John murmurs quietly. He’s confused, watching Greg as he tries to psych himself up for whatever he’s about to say. For a moment, John wonders if someone else has died and his chest tightens even though he can’t feel the fearful grief that goes with it.

 

“I-”

 

The door opens. Sherlock walks in. John glances his way, then catches himself and resolutely ignores him as he gives Greg his full attention. And Greg realizes it a second later. His face goes even more pale and his brows furrow before he turns and glares right at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, who isn’t supposed to be anywhere but in John’s head.

 

Sherlock, who is holding the bottle of his pills so tightly that the plastic is creaking.

 

“Greg,” John prompts because there has to be another explanation. Sherlock isn’t _there_. Greg isn’t looking at him. It’s… “ _Greg_.”

 

“I told you to wait,” Greg snarls as he gets up, ignoring John completely. “Do you want to give him a heart attack? After all this?”

 

“I’ve seen his last physical. His heart is fine,” Sherlock sniffs and John is caught by the irrational hilarity that of course Sherlock wouldn’t care about personal privacy, would invade his medical files.

 

Both men stop and stare when John laughs. He thumps against the back of the couch, letting his head fall against it so he can look at the ceiling.

 

“I… sorry, Greg. Just… a stupid thought. I…”

 

The faint mirth fades. John stares up and tries to decide if Greg has simply joined the hallucination or if he’s actually spoken to the Sherlock John dreamed up.

“John,” Sherlock says softly. And that’s it.

 

John gets up, nearly crashing down when his knee goes weak, but Greg catches him long enough to get steady. He hears his name but he needs to get away. He needs to go to his room and lay in his bed and just not _think_.

 

It’s only three steps across the living room before Sherlock calls out, “John, _I’m_ _real!_ ”

 

John goes still. He takes in a slow breath. Then he shakes his head because no, Sherlock is dead and John is getting over him. He’s letting him go. He starts again but Greg has hold of his arm and isn’t letting go.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Greg says and it’s the sincerity of his voice that strikes John. He looks back and searches Greg’s face. “John, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

John feels something. It’s deep in him, hard and bright and terrified. “Greg-”

 

Sherlock moves and catches John’s shoulder in one long fingered hand. The warmth sinks in through John’s shirt. He can feel the pressure, feel a minute shake in Sherlock’s fingers. John slowly looks up at Sherlock.

 

And then it’s over. No amount of medication can stop what he’s feeling now.

 

“You-” he starts but whatever he meant to say disappears and he snarls out, “ _Why won’t you let me forget you?!_ ”

 

Sherlock lurches back as if he were struck. John hears Greg say something but his world has dwindled to nothing but Sherlock. John reaches out and snatches the bottle from Sherlock’s hand, stepping into his space without a thought.

 

“I have been handling this for _years_ ,” John rails, feeling anger more keenly than he has in months. “I have kept it together. I have dealt with Harry and Mason and you and the _lack_ of you and everyone’s grief, and the moment I try to let you go, _you decide it’s bloody well time to hang on?!_ ”

 

“John,” Greg whispers from somewhere behind him.

 

“No! Not this time. I’m done with you, Sherlock. _I’m done_. I’m letting you go.” John is filled with a strange exhilaration. He’s finally doing it. He’s confronting his phantom and he’s going to get over this. He’s going to let go. “No more watching you wander the flat. No more listening to you complain about how boring the clinic is. No more reaching out to you. _You’re not real and I don’t need you anymore._ ”

 

Sherlock just stares at him. John’s breath is fast and harsh. He rips himself from both men and starts towards the bedroom again. His hands are shaking. He can’t handle this. Not now. He doesn’t even care what Greg must think of him now, screaming at nothing. John goes inside and shuts the door. He leans back against it and his legs go out from under him, sending him right to the ground. John rakes a hand back through his hair. He looks at the bottle and opens it. He takes his pills dry.

 

He’s going to make this stop.

 

\----

 

It’s an hour later when someone finally disturbs John.

 

He’s been listening to voices out in the living room and rising up from the bottom floor. None of it makes much sense, not with what he knows, but it’s easier to forget than figure out. John lies in bed and stares at the clock on the nightstand. He wishes it were already tomorrow because his sleepless nights are boring and hours slide by like dripping water through his conscious thought.

 

The knock at the door is hesitant. John doesn’t answer, but he does sit up at the edge of the bed. He waits. After a minute or so, there’s a quiet call of his name but it isn’t Sherlock’s voice so John lets them in.

 

Greg looks pale and almost sick. He closes the door after him and goes to stand before John. When he lifts his eyes to John’s face, they are filled with a great guilt.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize what was going on.”

 

“It’s fine. I’ve handled it-”

 

“It’s not fine,” Greg growls. He reached out to take the pill bottle still held tight in John’s fingers. For a moment, John refuses to let go. Then he realizes how childish he’s being and lets Greg take it. Greg rolls it over in his palm a bit. “You thought you were hallucinating… How long?”

 

“I was twenty-five,” John replies and Greg’s eyes sharpen. “I handled it before just fine…Then Sherlock just… I _have_ been hallucinating. I know that. I’ve known the entire time he wasn’t real, just like my sister and the private. I’m not completely mental.”

 

Greg sits down next to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

John’s not sure. Well, he is, but at the same time… He could have probably trusted Greg with this, but he’d been coveting Sherlock close for so long already… “Oh, yes, just come out and tell one of your best mates that you're _seeing dead people…_ I didn’t want to lose them. It’s… Lonely. I…. I didn’t want to lose _him_.”

 

Greg draws in a slow, bracing breath. “So the medication… How long…?”

 

“A little over a week. I…” John smiles with self depreciation. “I was always able to tell real or fake, so I didn’t worry about it even when he was hanging around most of the time. But… Then… One night I reached out and he felt real and I forgot he wasn’t. I didn’t want to lose it completely. So I went to do something about it.”

 

“Of course you did.” Greg shakes his head a bit, rubbing over his face with one hand. He looks tired. “Always so level headed.”

 

John takes back the bottle and sets it inside his nightstand. “It’s done well so far. I stopped seeing him most of the time. But… It’ll take a little while for it to accumulate in my system. He’ll be gone completely. I’m letting him… _them_ go like I should have done in the first place.”

 

“ _John_ ,” Greg murmurs, his voice a harsh rasp. John looks at him and Greg stares back, conflicted and guilty. “You’re not hallucinating Sherlock.”

 

“…What?”

 

“He’s here. That stupid bastard is here, in the flat. He’s real.”

 

John just stares at him. “Sherlock’s dead.”

 

“He faked it. He’s here, right now, on the couch. Mrs. Hudson is tending to his black eye.”

 

“Black…?”

 

“I hit him. He deserved it. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize, John. I should have seen it. I should have known something was wrong.”

 

John knows he should be centering on helping Greg deal with his misplaced guilt but all he can think about is Sherlock. He suddenly feels like he can’t breath but his emotions are so dampened that nothing happens. He can’t react even though he knows he should. Mutely, John gets up. He barely hears Greg anymore and instead goes to the door and steps through. He hears Mrs. Hudson admonishing Sherlock with quiet sternness, very unhappy with his conduct while Sherlock swears he didn’t know.

 

Didn’t know?

 

Sherlock jerks his head up the moment John steps into view. They stare at each other as Greg moves around John to lead Mrs. Hudson back downstairs. John listens to every footfall but he doesn’t look away from Sherlock.

 

His eye looks terrible already, swelling dark on Sherlock’s pale skin. And somehow, the difference between what John is used to seeing and what is presented now is enough to finally drive it home. John’s knee crumples. He catches the wall to steady himself and Sherlock is on his feet a moment later but doesn’t approach.

 

“John,” he calls, breaking the stand off.

 

“Don’t,” John snarls at him without much bite, but Sherlock stops anyway. “When was it you? How long has it been _you?_ ”

 

Sherlock frowns like he doesn’t really understand the question even though John knows he does and it’s infuriating. “I’ve been here two weeks.”

 

John thinks back. It’s suddenly clear what set off his apparent descent into total madness, rather than the half madness he’d been managing so well on his own. He still doesn’t know what times had been Sherlock and what hadn’t, and he's sure he’d still been hallucinating a lot of what was going on. That wouldn’t just go away the moment Sherlock showed up for real. John reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“And you just… You just came home like that? Like everything was normal?”

 

“You’re the one that didn’t tell anyone you were seeing things,” Sherlock retorts coolly. It’s enough for John to glare at him again. “No one told me anything was wrong.”

 

“Did you really think your homecoming would have been so uneventful?” John can’t help growling.

 

Sherlock doesn’t respond at first. He stares John down, all undetermined motives and secrets and intentions that couldn’t be fathomed. It’s how he’s always been. He hasn’t changed a bit. That comforts John in a way, even as it angers him. He’s rather sure that if he hadn’t started the medication, he’d be screaming.

 

“How long have you been hallucinating?”

 

John frowns. He doesn’t want to turn this to him but he still bites out, “Since you died.”

 

It’s as long as he’s been seeing Sherlock, anyway. For some reason, John doesn’t want to reveal Harry or Private Mason to him. He wants to protect them. Sherlock’s gaze goes far away. He’s figuring something out, looking through the data presented to him. Then his brows furrow with puzzlement. “I went to watch you a few weeks after. Needed to make sure they hadn’t gone back on the deal.”

 

“They _?_ Moriarty and his men?”

 

“I think you may have noticed me.”

 

John isn’t sure. He can’t really be sure of anything. If he had caught a glimpse of Sherlock after he knew he was dead… Well. It didn’t really matter what had set things off. What matters now is that Sherlock is a bastard, but a live one. Now John just needs to know what to do.

 

“You need to leave,” John says. Sherlock flinches, just slightly.

 

“I don’t think-”

 

“Sherlock. I need some time to process this. Not everyone can process everything thrown at them in seconds. You need to leave. If you don’t go now, I’ll have Greg drag you out and I’m sure he’ll oblige me.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He takes in the measure of John and John can almost hear every little fact Sherlock sees: _unstable, drugged, in shock, unmovable_. Finally, Sherlock gives a faint, uneasy nod.

 

“Very well. I’ll return in the-”

 

“I’ll call you when I’m ready,” John interrupts and is proud that his voice stays calm.

 

There’s a moment where it seems as if Sherlock is stumbling even though he’s standing still. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. So, after a minute or two, Sherlock just turns and leaves.

 

John sags as soon as he hears Sherlock’s steps at the foot of the stairs. He struggles back to his room and falls onto the bed in a limp drop. John closes his eyes and for the first time in a week, he sleeps like the dead.

 

\----

 

When John wakes up, it’s dark. He checks the clock and thinks he’s only been sleeping a few hours. When Mrs. Hudson comes up to check on him, he finds out it’s been a full day. John doesn’t know how to feel about this. So he tries not to think of it. Instead, he eats, cleans himself up, and settles in the living room to figure out the more pressing issues.

 

Sherlock is alive. John has been both seeing and hallucinating him. He wants to be angry at Sherlock for not letting him know, but… John should have told someone. He should have sought help before this. Much of this is John’s fault. However, if Sherlock hadn’t faked his death, things wouldn’t have spiraled out of control in the first place. John rubs between his eyes. He wishes there were some easy answer to all this but there isn’t.

 

First things first. John decides to stop taking the medication. He needs to be in full control of his emotions and the blanket of numbed calm won’t help. He knows he’ll likely see Sherlock-that-isn’t-Sherlock, along with the real thing, but he’ll take the risk.

 

Next, he calls the clinic. John intends on apologizing and assuring he’ll be in the next morning, but when the conversation ends, he’s agreed to two weeks of leave and been threatened with bodily harm if he shows up any sooner. There was also an offer for dinner that John somehow managed to decline. He stares at the phone for a bit, then slips it back into his pocket.

 

Now he has two weeks to get himself together. He doesn’t know quite how he’s going to manage this. Already, he’s starting to hear footsteps and bored rambling around the flat again. He feels an irrational comfort from it. John can’t sleep so he spends most of the night in the living room and listening to Sherlock-that-is-definitely-not-Sherlock rummage around in his bedroom. However, despite having been asleep a full day, he still finds himself growing tired again within a few hours. He goes to bed and has nightmares.

 

John jolts awake with a cry after failing, once again to save his best friend from death. He pants, covering his eyes with his hand, and he’s not at all surprised when Sherlock appears at the end of his bed.

 

“You woke me,” Sherlock says predictably.

 

“I’m sorry,” John replies even though he knows he shouldn’t because it wouldn’t matter since this isn’t the real Sherlock. The real Sherlock is out of the flat and probably hates him for his irrational behavior and John doesn’t care except that he’s never cared about anything else more-

 

“Are you _crying?_ ” Sherlock sounds vaguely offended.

 

“Sorry.” John rubs the heel of his hand hard into one eye, trying to stave off the flow. “Sorry, you can go. Don’t watch-”

 

The bed drops just a bit. John looks up and Sherlock is leaning over him, one hand on the bed to steady himself. His eyes are piercing and serious.

 

“I won't leave you,” Sherlock says in a low, quiet tone.

 

John doesn’t know what to think. He stares at the visage of Sherlock that seems so very real but Sherlock wouldn’t- He doesn’t _do_ people. Not his area. Not like this. But John craves it so very selfishly.

 

“You did,” he accuses without much bite.

 

“I won’t.”

 

And that’s how John knows he isn’t real. He doesn’t reach out to him, but he does settle back down in bed and let Sherlock stand as a guard for him until he falls back to sleep.

 

\----

 

_Wednesday_

 

John stares out at the street from the living room as he sips his morning tea. He sees Private Mason round a corner and is ridiculously relieved when Mason turns his head up and gives him one of those smart assed smiles. John nods to him and watches until he walks out of his sight.

 

He spends the day reading and shaking off the lingering affects of the medication. Harry doesn’t appear, but she does call the phone to give him a lecture. John lets himself be amused more than anything else because he has to admit, she has a way with words and her descriptions of Sherlock are enough to send him into gut busting laughter.

 

When Sherlock shows up in the kitchen, he gives John a glance and then proceeds to sulkily ignore him. John supposes he deserves that.

 

Still, before John heads to bed, Sherlock makes a point to mention an experiment he’ll be starting in the fridge. It’s an offhand warning but it warms John ridiculously. He settles into bed and listens as Sherlock picks up the violin. He assures himself that this is all in his mind, accepts it, and then sleeps deeply.

 

\----

 

_Thursday_

 

John goes out to get groceries. Mrs. Hudson greets him on the way back in, asks him if he needs anything, and then continues to look worried. Nothing he says will soothe her. Finally, he gives up and goes on to put up the groceries. When he comes back, there are signs here and there that someone has been in but John ignores them. If Sherlock wants to sneak around while he’s out, he supposes he can’t stop him.

 

Almost out of spite, John cleans the flat. It feels strangely therapeutic to scrub at old stains and tidy about. Almost like he can straighten himself up at the same time. Cleaning kills a few hours but soon enough, he finds himself in his chair with an unopened book in his hands and no will to read it.

 

His thoughts stray, predictably, to Sherlock. John doesn’t know what he’s going to do about this. Logically, he knows why Sherlock faked his death and left him like this, that Sherlock likely didn’t even realize what it would do to him, and who would have ever guessed about the hallucinations from a man who had survived years of war? Bum leg, excluded. He can be angry at Sherlock for being insensitive, but he can’t fault him for not understanding the strength of what John felt for him.

 

Even John had.

 

He doesn't really know what he wants from Sherlock even now. A companion, a brother, a lover, a friend… Sherlock had effortlessly filled nearly every place that had ever been open to other people in John’s life.

 

“I must be a masochist,” he mutters to himself.

 

“…Excuse me?”

 

John glances up. Sherlock stands at the doorway, giving him a look not unlike one would a wild animal they weren’t quite sure wouldn’t bite them for no reason. John can’t help but blush a little.

 

“Nothing. Got a new case?” John assumes so, considering Sherlock’s already in his coat and scarf.

 

However, Sherlock continues staring at him mutely. After several seconds, where John has to resist the urge to back down, Sherlock finally gives an unsure, “No.”

 

“Oh.” John pauses, thrown off a moment. “All right then.”

 

Which just gives Sherlock more reason to stare at him. He glances to one side, looking as if he were trying to figure something very silly out, then looks back. “… Are you… feeling all right?”

 

“Well enough,” John replies and nearly smiles at the discomfort Sherlock shows at basic human interaction. John has seen him play others like instruments, but it must be different with those he’s close to.

 

John gets up and sets the book aside. It’s late enough he might as well make something, so he wanders on into the kitchen. He hears Sherlock slowly approach the entry and watch him. The weight of his gaze is heavy upon John’s shoulders. He isn’t sure what to think of that.

 

“Don’t use _all_ of the cabinet space,” Sherlock finally grumbles and John automatically shifts the sandwich fixings over to give him room.

 

“You could say please,” John replies blithely.

 

“… What?”

 

“It’s a word. You use it to soften orders.”

 

Sherlock snorts next to him. “Talking to you doesn’t require pleasantries.”

 

“You could still make the effort.”

 

John finishes his sandwich and turns to sit down at the table but pauses. Because Sherlock isn’t beside him. He’s still standing at the edge of the kitchen looking very puzzled.

 

“What is it?” John asks because he can’t figure out what’s wrong.

 

“Are you still angry with me?” Sherlock asks with obvious exasperation.

 

John pauses. He tightens his hold on his sandwich plate and looks at Sherlock critically. And then he finally takes in the black eye and red scarf. His gut twists hard.

 

“What are you doing here?” he finds himself growling out without meaning, with a heat he hadn’t meant either.

 

Sherlock stiffens. His eyes blank out a moment before he murmurs, “You thought you were hallucinating. No, you _were_ hallucinating at the same time I-”

 

“ _Why are you here, Sherlock?!_ ”

 

The plate tumbles out of his hands and hits the ground with a dull crack. Sherlock doesn’t move. There is a deep silence between them. John can’t even understand why he’s so angry. He wants to lash out. He wants to give Sherlock a matching set of black eyes, but he doesn’t let himself move.

 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, low and unsure, thick with something John can’t read.

 

“ _You_ , I swear.” John glances heavenward and then sits down at the table as a sudden weakness trembles in his leg. “I didn’t… I told you to wait until I called!”

 

“It’s been three days,” Sherlock mutters. On anyone else, it would have been sheepish. On Sherlock, it’s pure sulk.

 

“That’s not a reason,” John snipes back.

 

They’re quiet a while, John seething and Sherlock sulking. It’s both frustratingly familiar and new at the same time. John wonders what he’s doing. He can’t stay angry at Sherlock for being himself, not for long. The truth is, he’s happy Sherlock's back and safe and alive. He just… It’s overwhelming. John rakes a hand back through his hair.

 

“Look. I know you didn’t mean for this but I’m not like you. I can’t just bounce back from everything the way you want me to,” John murmurs, trying to make him understand. “I need time to ease in.”

 

“Like you eased into becoming a civilian?” Sherlock’s voice is sharp and offended and the barb hits just where he means it to. John glares at him.

 

“You’re a real bastard sometimes,” John growls. He gets up and starts picking up pieces of the plate and ruined sandwich. “Anyone else would kick you out right now. Right to the bloody curb.”

 

There’s a pause, then, “But not you.”

 

“No.” John lets out a quiet, self-depreciating laugh. “Not me.”

 

Sherlock kneels down close and starts helping find all the plate shards. They say nothing through the clean up. John fetches the broom to get the rest. Afterward, when there’s nothing else to busy their hands, they stand quietly in the kitchen like a couple of fools.

 

“It’d be easier if he were ugly, I think,” Harry mutters, swinging her legs as she sits on the counter. She looks like she did when they were young, before the drink ruined her. Her brown eyes are dispassionate as she stares at Sherlock like she’s taking in his worth. She flicks a bit of hair from her face and hops off the counter so she can stalk around him like some wild thing. “You can always tell an ugly face to bugger off.”

 

John glances at her and before he redirects back to Sherlock’s face, the man is following his gaze. Sherlock frowns, puzzled, and then looks back at him.

 

“John,” he says and it’s less a word and more a complex question.

 

“It’s nothing,” John replies. He puts up the broom and tunes out Harry the way he’s done for years now when live people are around. “I’ve been looking at flats.”

 

“… _What?_ ”

 

John doesn’t turn around, even at the quiet, strained way Sherlock said the word. “There are a few I can afford now. I should be able to move in the next month or so-”

 

There is a stony silence behind him that catches him up short. John can feel eyes boring into his back. Slowly, he turns and then freezes solid. Sherlock’s face is awash with a confused sort of horror, as if he has no idea how to react. As if the very idea is so startling that even Sherlock can’t think past it.

 

“You’re leaving?” he sputters finally.

 

“I thought it best. Because of… Well.” John smiles self depreciatingly. “It won’t do to have a mental patient at the side of the world’s only consulting detective, would it?”

 

“I…” Sherlock is still on lock down. This doesn’t compute, doesn’t make sense to him. John understands.

 

“Running away, then,” Private Mason mutters. He leans against the fridge, arms folded, and gives John a baleful look. There’s blood across his cheek and his hair is mussed from the harsh wind, pinking his ruddy skin. He looks like he’s still under the hot sun of the desert despite being right here in London. Blood slowly soaks into his shirt from the bullet that sank true into his heart and ended his life.

 

It’s the first time he’s seen all three of them at once and he’s struck by their similarities. All three of them were… _are_ such selfish, self absorbed people. His memory of them never dimmed that because he had loved them all as much for that selfishness as despite it. He had loved them for all their flaws. They look nothing alike, but he knows they would hate each other for their similarities.

 

“There’s no reason to go.”

 

John snaps his attention to Sherlock and is struck still by the look on his face. It’s far more troubled than John knows how to handle. Sherlock cautiously steps closer, as if he thinks John might lash out at him.

 

“If my deductions are correct, you’ve been seeing things for longer than our work together,” Sherlock says but his tone is absent, as if the details don’t matter at all for once. “It never deterred our work before in any noticeable way.”

 

“If it’s just the work, I could still-”

 

“It’s not,” Sherlock says quickly, cutting John off as if he’d said nothing at all. “It’s not just the work. You should stay.”

 

John’s mouth goes dry. Sherlock’s gaze is harsh and fierce and so very focused on him. Like he can see all the way inside John. He can see nothing but Sherlock’s pale eyes.

 

“John,” Sherlock says softly. “ _Stay._ ”

 

John swallows thickly and rips his gaze away. His fingers curl tight at the edge of the counter. This can’t be real. This is too different from Sherlock’s usual behavior. It reeks of the attachment that Sherlock had scoffed so easily at. He’s hallucinating. He’s seeing what he wants to see, hearing what he wants to hear-

 

Sherlock’s hands slam onto the counter on either side of him and John jolts, jerking up his head to stare at him.

 

“I’m _real!_ ” Sherlock snarls and he’s so close that John can feel the heat of his body. “I could care less whatever, _whomever_ , else you see, but you _will_ look at me and _see me_.”

 

John shivers. He searches over his face but doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He senses Harry and Mason moving but can’t rip his eyes away from Sherlock’s face. He hasn’t seen him like this, not directed at anything other than a _case_.

 

“Why?” John asks and he’s horrified by how weak his voice has gotten.

 

“Because you belong here.” Sherlock’s voice is still rough and harsh. “Because no one else _should_ be here.”

 

John swallows. He closes his eyes tight a moment. “You’re getting very… very close to sentiment, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

And miraculously, this only brings a short, quiet snort of self depreciating amusement.

 

“I was already there,” he admits and John’s eyes snap open to stare at him. Sherlock isn’t shamed by it. He keeps John’s gaze steadily and close as they are, John can see everything clearly on his face. “Why do you think I did all of this in the first place? Really, John, you’re being slower than usual.”

 

“Oh that’s charming,” Harry mutters quietly.

 

“I can see why you fell for him,” Mason adds and John can hear the roll of his eyes in his voice.

 

“As if there was any reason not to,” Sherlock ends but Sherlock's mouth isn't moving and his eyes have no mirth in them.

 

John doesn't know what to think. He knows what this sounds like but Sherlock wouldn't, Sherlock _couldn't_... Sherlock doesn't do people unless they're useful to him. He doesn't see them, not really. They're tools or amusement and he likes them best when they're dead with no witness. John knows this. He understands this. He...

 

He's curling his hands in Sherlock's shirt and dragging him in. He's kissing Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock responds in kind after a moment of surprise. Sherlock's body presses John against the counter, real and warm and wearing that ridiculous purple shirt, the one that's too small that John always wants to get rid of, and the red scarf that John thinks maybe he doesn't hate anymore, and his fingers are slim and cold and not quite gentle, but they touch the way John always imagined Sherlock would.

 

John keeps his eyes closed after, at least until Sherlock tells him to open them and they're still in the kitchen and still pressed so close and Sherlock is still real. Harry and Mason and Sherlock-that-is-definitely-not-Sherlock have gone for now. John knows they'll be back, at least the first two. He doesn't know about the last. He doesn't really need that Sherlock anymore.

 

John spends the rest of his mock vacation hearing about what Sherlock has been up to for during his faked death and laughing as the media blows up about Sherlock's return. He watches Sherlock pace and talk with his hands, listens to the rise and fall of his voice. When the nightmares wake him up, Sherlock sits at his bedside and tells him firmly that he's real. It's how John knows because his hallucinations have never lied about that. John still doesn't know exactly what he wants from Sherlock but it seems Sherlock doesn't mind exploring it with him.

 

Harry thinks they're cute. Mason tells him to get kneepads.

 

Sherlock-that-is-not-Sherlock slowly fades away.


End file.
